More fun than an E Ticket

I have no doubt that my mother's preagnancy with me was an accident.  Mostly because on several occasions, she told me I was an accident.  She's also not known for her tact.  when I was growing up I was a pretty sensitive child.  I liked the term "tender heated".  She called me out by calling me a limp wristed queen when I was three.  I was also a VERY chubby kid.  she would intentionally buy clothes one or two sizes too small to "mostivate me".  And it did.  I was motivated to start cutting and puke up everything I ate by the age of seven.  My esophageal tears are weapons against getting fat according to her.

I was a puffy, fat, faggotty faggot growing up.  I was also very short, almost runt like.  I seemed to be equally wide as tall.  My fingerts were little, nubbish Vienna Sausages.  There's nothing more repulsive to me than a fat kid crying whilst wolfing down Little Debbie snacks.  Perhaps it's because it directly links me to a terrible, yet at the same time comical, part of my childhood.  As I got older I developed a healthy case of body dysmorphia so that I stay svelte and far far away from husky.  I try to relate to the fat kids like I can with gypsy elvin folk.  But fat kids are always so sensitive and with the tactless behavior I inheritted from my mother I can never tell if a fat kid is crying or if they're just greasy.

My mother also can micromanage someone into having psychotic features.  Case in point, I was seventeen and carving a holiday ham I the kitchen and my mother was putting the last touches on all the trimmings and sending me into a nuclear meltdown with her verbose whirlwind of disaster which she cunningly unleashed with her big, fat trap.  I had gained fifteen pounds since turkey day, I was breaking out, she was behind on all the bills and that was somehow all my fault, I was too homosexual, I was going to hell for that and that alone, my grades had taken a dive because of my "self- inflicted" depression.....Everything was susceptible to be torn into pieces and thrown into the fire that my mother loved to fan.  As she rattled off her battery of critiques, her voice became4 a hum of incoherent keys and annoying pitches like if two MOOGes could make love.  The all sound returned to her nasal high aural sting like a power saw gives as it runs through petrified wood...cutting me in half.

I turned and began screaming in a high monotone and repeatedly stabbing my thighs with the two tined carving fork.  It was the only way I could get the crone to shut up.  It was all soon made better when I got heavy doses of perscription pain killers and given the power to refuse my mother in my examination room at the local ER.  That bill was money well spent.